


Prisoner

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gold Sickness, Happy Ending, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9356876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: His every wish is obeyed and his every need cared for-As long as he never leaves this room.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for Damnitfili on tumblr, for her very late birthday present.

He wakes to the sound of pounding drums and ancient Khuzdul, the only words people know any more. The national anthem of their ancient kingdom, passed down through generations for thousands of years.

“Off,” he says, wide awake though he’d rather not be. They chose the Anthem so he can’t sleep through it, his ears and mind never quite adjusting and letting him sleep through. 

If he falls back to sleep, the alarm will just go off again. So he stretches, feels the slow pull through his muscles, as sleep and dreams drift away with the artificial sunlight that shines from the artificial windows on the screens that make up his longest wall. 

He has not left this room in ten years.

His bed is comfortable and always clean; he has access to luxurious clothes and delicious food; he can connect to the internet, play games, watch the world go by. He has the money and power to do anything he wants-

-as long as he remains within these four walls. 

He crosses to the wash area, stepping through an opening that isn’t quite to another room, but only a space. He tosses the expensive sleepwear to a shelf from which it will later disappear, and commands water to spray from the walls and ceiling. The temperature is perfect, exactly as he likes, and he closes his eyes as he tilts his head into the spray.

It takes time to wash his hair – the shampoo is exactly formulated and smells of citrus, bright and clean and comfortable – because it’s grown long enough to brush his waist. He runs his fingers through it, twists it in his hands, scrubs; when he was outside, his hair was something he took pride in. He refuses to stop now.

It is so long because it’s strong and healthy and he’s given up on trying to cut it himself. He always looked terrible after his own hack jobs, but he’s decided the length suits him, in a way.

He takes extra time in the shower this morning, running his hands over his body, tracing muscle and skin and the trail of curls leading to his cock. Years ago, as his body was awakening and changing, he would take long showers, wrap a hand around himself, moan into the steam. Later, hard jerks and getting off as fast as possible, all for the release of endorphins and the lazy feel of his body after.

Now though, he wants something real. He wants a sweet voice and playful laugh and strong hands, and his own touch does nothing anymore. 

“Water off,” he says aloud, and the walls obey, as they always do. 

He is a man whose orders are always followed, without question. 

He is the man who would be king.

\------

“No! No! I won’t-!”

Kicks and screams and bites, but the arms holding him are strong and he can feel a cloud coming over his mind from the injection they’ve given him.

“This is for your own safety, Your Majesty.”

Only a teenager, not grown into his strength yet, and they won’t follow his orders. They’ve always followed his orders.

“But Kíli! He’ll be in danger too-!”

“We will take care of the young prince. But these are the king’s orders. He will not have his heir assassinated.”

The door closea out the sunlight, and his last vision of the outside world is warped by the sting of frustrated tears.

\-----

He picks up his breakfast when a soft voice directs him to the slot in the wall. It is hot and delicious and perfectly balanced. They don’t make him eat the same thing every day – it’s obvious a professional chef prepares his meals, and there is endless variety. 

He eats because he needs his strength, and because he depends on this one source of variety to help him keep the threads of his sanity knit together.

“Are you ready for your morning exercise?” the pleasant voice asks from all around him. He thought at first it must be a real voice; computer voices are never so genuine. He used to ask questions and tease and yell at the voice, but its eternal calmness was too inhuman. The computer must be as cutting edge and experimental as the matter transfer technology used to give and take the items he needs throughout the day.

“Yes,” he says. “The elliptical, beach at night.”

At his words, a heavy elliptical machine, state-of-the-art, appears as if from the air. His wall of screens changes, showing a beautiful stretch of beach, the sounds of waves and gulls filling the room. He steps up, checks the settings, and begins his morning run.

Mornings and early afternoons run into each other – breakfast, exercise, study on any topic that interests him on the computer station tucked in one nondescript corner, exercise, lunch – and he goes through the steps almost in a daze. 

He has studied subjects at a depth more suited to someone with a doctorate: medicine, computers, history, law, agriculture. But the one he has studied the most is psychology and psychiatry. 

He needs to _understand._

He needs to comprehend this madness that caused the uncle who once loved him to seal him away in a hell of loneliness.

He has always been smart, and always been curious, and there are videos from universities and studies and libraries at his fingertips that open the world of learning to him. He used to lose himself for hours at a time in one topic or another, but his curiosity dulled over time. He cannot devote four solid hours to randomly researching a topic any longer. 

For a time, he replaced this with media: endless hours of movies and television shows. But seeing all those people _interacting_ -

He began to fear he was going as mad as his uncle.

So he has learned to divide his time into study and exercise and leisure, and to vary his routine so it doesn’t become rote monotony. He works to keep his body fit and his mind healthy, because each day, a light shines briefly from outside his dark, lonely world.

Each afternoon, at 1600 hours precisely, when he is seated at his computer and reading the news sites, trying to see what was happening in the outside world, a discrete box appears in the corner and the simple words

_[Hi there]_

make him come alive for the first time each day.

[Well, hello to you] he types back, as discretely as possible, though the person on the other side has assured him that their contact is safe. 

\-----

_[I’m going to keep typing until you answer.]_

Three days since the first message, but he doesn’t answer because it’s so amazing – a voice from the light, nonstop typing for an hour and then disappearing exactly at 1700 hours. He’s become paranoid – they’ve never laid a trap for him before, he’s here for his safety and not to be tortured, but-

There is always a first time.

_[It’s perfectly safe, I promise. The best hackers in the world helped me do this. They want you out almost as much as I do.]_

_[You can trust me.]_

_[You’ve always trusted me.]_

_[We’re best friends.]_

_[Maybe sometimes worst enemies! Wink wink]_

_[Come on, you know who I am, I bet. You’ve always been smart. I just can’t say it, just in case. If anyone sees this, they can’t know who I am, or how will I get to you one day?]_

And he did know. In all that cocky chatter, he knows. He almost says the name aloud, but stops himself. Only one person had always been able to draw him out of a bad mood, and here that person is, reaching out to him from the world outside the darkness. 

Cautiously, his fingers move over the keyboard, spelling out a simple

[Hello] 

And in return, 

_[There you are! Hi! :D ]_

He can almost see the grin…almost.

It’s been a very long time.

\------

 _[I had a dream about you]_ the voice from the light writes.

[Oh? Was I a pirate again?]

_[Stop teasing me about that, it’s your fault for telling me how long your hair is now! And the beard! No, you weren’t a pirate, this time. But you were just as nude by the end.]_

Warmth spreads through his chest and coils low in his stomach. 

He’s had similar dreams, of warm eyes and dark hair and kisses in the dark. 

There’s nothing right about them.

He shouldn’t be having them, shouldn’t be feeling-

But what does it matter, when he will live his life in this room?

[I hope you were there too.] he types, ignoring the beating of his heart.

He should not be in love with his voice from the light. But he is. They’ve written about everything, their hearts, their thoughts, their pasts, his desperation, the other’s longing. He has never known another person as intimately as he does this one. It seemed only natural that over the last three years, their talk has turned to intimacies he can only dream of but never truly experience.

\----

[I want to touch you.] 

He writes it first, too separated from the real world to feel the shame he should at the admission. He’s tired and lonely and he imagines his hand on another person’s skin when hot water massages his tired muscles. 

There isn’t an immediate answer, and he starts to panic. _Remember whom you’re talking to_! He berates himself, hands curling into fists. _Remember that in the real world, you couldn’t feel this way!_

But then, as he hates himself for the silence, and terror fills him that it will continue forever, the words appear:

_[I want to touch you, too. But I’m not sure we mean the same thing.]_

Relief, absolutely crushing, and he’ll play along to whatever his voice in the light means. [What do you mean?]

_[I]_

Another pause, and he bites his bottom lip in nervous anticipation. He remembers a time when he was always confident, but that was long ago, when he was surrounded by friends and family and servants.

_[I want to kiss you. And touch you. And]_

_[I dream about you.]_

_[And think about you. Your body.]_

He closes his eyes, takes a slow breath because it feels right, and warm, and he doesn’t have to be afraid. But he doesn’t want the other to be afraid, either.

[That’s exactly what I mean, too] he confesses, and he imagines the other laughing aloud with joy and relief. He wonders what it sounds like.

_[Glad it’s not just me then! :) I’d feel silly, having dirty thoughts all alone!]_

The room warms with his soft, delighted laughter.

\------

_[Oh, I was there. And I’m going to tell you all about it. In person.]_

[Don’t say that] 

_[It’s true. It’s time. We’ve found a way. I promise, I wouldn’t tell you we have if we haven’t. We’ve been close a dozen times, and I never said a word. But we know where you are. We know how to reach you. And when we do, I’m going to be the first person you see.]_

His chest hurts, a sharp, terrifying pain, and he gasps into it, curling, a hand on his heart. 

It isn’t possible.

[He’ll never let me leave.] 

Because he has read the news reports and heard from his friend in the light that his uncle has been slowly going mad, that the seeds were planted before Fíli was hidden away from the world, that his uncle is obsessed with his legacy and hides away in his palace and passes laws that restrict the rights of the people.

He was a good man, once, but now he has become a tyrant.

[You said it yourself, he’s too paranoid. Too mad.] he types, because hope is too painful in a world where it has been gone for more than a decade.

A pause, and then:

_[I didn’t ask him. This isn’t about him. This is about us. I love you. You belong to yourself, not to him, and I’m going to get you out of there.]_

_I belong to you, he thinks,_ but he doesn’t type it, because it would feel wrong.

_[I have to go. I’ll be there soon. I promise.]_

_[I love you.]_

His fingers move over the keys, the pattern familiar.

[I love you, too] 

Followed by

[Don’t do anything foolish. If you get killed, I won’t survive in here alone.] 

But there is no answer.

The little box in the corner of his screen disappears.

\-----

He knows that his voice from the light is going to die.

There have been disappearances and executions in the last few years, as whatever sickness has taken over his uncle’s mind tightens its grip on him. He is allowed free access to the internet as long as he doesn’t chat or interact in any way, and he knows the truth from bloggers and analysts that aren’t under the government’s thumb.

He knows the truth from how often those blogs mysteriously disappear, without a trace left to show that the person or the site was ever there.

He knows that the person he loves, the one he sees in his dreams, the one whose voice flickers just beyond his memory, will be killed trying to save him.

And he knows he will not cling to the shreds of his sanity alone.

He can’t stand staring at the silent computer, and so he calls for a treadmill and runs. He runs until his heart is pounding and his head hurts and sweat is pouring down his back because it’s the only way to keep from thinking.

The screens show an idyllic road through hills and trees, the treadmill adjusting with each rise, but the sight doesn’t calm him.

It’s one more thing he will never see, and now neither will the person he loves.

All because of him.

Because he has not found a way out in over ten years.

Because perhaps he has become complacent.

Not perhaps. He has. He stopped fighting.

And now his one light will pay for it.

He screams, and loses his footing, and falls, tears in his eyes.

“Are you injured?” the pleasant voice asks, and for the first time in years he screams back, curses it, even though he knows there will be no emotional response.

“No you frigid bitch! I’m not! Fuck you all to hell! I’ll find you, and break you into a million pieces!” he snarls, gasping for air, his throat tight and dehydrated and rough from unaccustomed abuse.

A sob breaks through the words and he covers his face with his hands and imagines a world in which he is, once again, truly alone.

He has taken pride in the fact that he hasn’t broken, in this room.

But he feels himself cracking now.

 _I’ll be as mad as Uncle_ , he thinks, then says aloud, “Maybe that’s what he wants.”

 _My golden boy,_ his uncle used to say, and when did the fondness turn into obsession?

When did he become property to be hidden away, instead of family to be loved and raised?

He should have known. He should have seen it. He should have stopped this before it started. He should never have answered that voice from the light, never given him a reason to hope, made him think his hacking didn’t work, kept him alive –

The wall on the other side of the room, the one where the slot delivered his food three times a day, every day, explodes.

\-----

He ducks instinctively, covers his head as fragments of the wall fly through the air and pelt him like hail. It stings, but doesn’t cut – the pieces are dull, like shatterproof glass. 

Voices, tangled together: 

It worked!  
We have to hurry, there’s no time-  
No, let me  
Out of my way, I’m going in first!  
We don’t have time-  
Out of my _way_ , Dwalin!

And then, just one voice.

Much lower than his trace of a memory, but just as warm.

“Fíli,” the voice says, and it is scared and hopeful and warm and perfect. “Fíli, it’s me.”

Fíli lifts his head. Debris catches in his hair and rolls down his face, and sweat stings his eyes, but he can see through the dust:

Wild brown hair and warm dark eyes and a smile to rival the sun and a hand, reaching out to him through the cloud of destruction.

“Kíli,” he breathes, because he’s known, he’s known, all along. Only his brother is stubborn enough to do all this, just to save him.

“I promised you’d see me first,” Kíli says, and his grin is wild at the edges with adrenaline, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

Fíli uncurls, his ears ringing a little, and pushes shakily to his feet. “You’re lucky I wasn’t over there,” he says, because he doesn’t know what to say, because he is overcome with joy.

Kíli laughed. “It still wouldn’t have killed you. I may be an idiot, but my crew is careful.” He shakes his hand in the air, and he is beautiful. His voice becomes gentle. “Come on,” he says again. “We need to hurry.”

Fíli reaches out.

His hand, bare skin, touches Kíli’s. His knees nearly buckle at the contact. _Human_ contact.

He pulls.

He’s shorter, a good bit, but solid and strong, and Kíli lets out a little grunt of surprise as he bumps into Fíli’s body. But his arms move automatically, wrapping around Fíli, the side of his face in his brother’s hair. 

“I love you,” Kíli says, and it’s so much better than seeing the words on a computer screen. 

Fíli pulls away, and for a moment Kíli’s smile disappears and his eyes are crushed, but Fíli reaches out and catches that wonderful face in his hands – he hadn’t imagined the beard properly, it’s soft and scratchy at once under his palms – and pushes to his toes to plant a firm, dry kiss to those lips he’s dreamed about. 

“I love you,” he says back, as Kíli’s eyes widen and the grin slowly comes back. 

“Even though-?”

“Even though,” Fíli agrees, because Kíli is his brother and his voice in the light and his savior, all wrapped in one loving, determined, impetuous package.

Kíli beams, and kisses him, gentler, softer, and doesn’t pull away as he whispers, “Let’s go into the light,” against the sensitive skin of Fíli’s lips.


End file.
